Dear @Nicholas McCowan, @Evelynn Decipio, @Marshal Mozor, @June Selwyn, @Haven Bohannon

August 1, 2022

xxxxxxxxAh. Yes. Now Maggie remembered. She did know Marshal Mozor from Leonard's birthday. This was true. She did think that she normally had a good memory for names and faces (this was false), but she just supposed that the humid summer air did something to her person. Messed with her head, made her brain melt out through her ears and get all stringy and goopy down her cheeks.

Or, in less graphic terms, heat made her stupid.

"My bad, I guess," Maggie wiggled her fingers dismissively, flippantly, and fell back onto her bed. She was glad that June was in this with her. Honestly, despite the uncaring facade that she was putting on, Maggie really did want these older students to like her. She wanted for her new tent mates to like her, think she was the best underclassman ever. To be entirely honest, Maggie wouldn't be all that surprised if June became the tent fan favorite. Which wasn't especially surprising, because Maggie thought June was pretty great, too, but it was something that the older girl was becoming all too aware of. So often, her best friend was adored and loved by all of their classmates. Maybe it was the fact that she wasn't so loud, wasn't so brash, wasn't so annoying. Or maybe there was just something wrong with Maggie.

Either way, this time would be different. Maggie Hawkins was going to prove that people could like her.

Of course, there wasn't all that much time to spend thinking and dwelling on her own thoughts, considering that there was a Sleeping Beauty-esque color war going on. Make it white, make it a gut-wrenching shade of neon yellow, make it white, make Maggie Hawkins throw up.

Haven Bohannon was cool, though, Maggie thought. She sat up at the sound of someone, anyone, who showed excitement and a lack of dullness. "Matching hats? Really? Well, what sort of hats? I do like hats," she asked, glancing at June and smacking the bed next to her arm to gesture for June to take a seat.

Arriving at Camp

Thank Merlin, June had correctly remembered the names of the two boys. June perked up a bit at the mention of Leonard Oaksworth. "We do know him, yes!" Obviously, June would scorn herself, you just said you were at his birthday party. A slight look of confusion danced across her face. "His... dragon? Leonard Oaksworth has a dragon?" June hadn't pinned him for the type who would care for animals and beasts, though he did clearly care for Merlin, June's favourite lizard.

June gave a curt nod and a friendly smile to Evelynn."Decipio, I see. Pleasure to meet you as well." Just as June was opening her mouth to speak, her train of thought was forcefully derailed by a very colourfully dressed girl. Who clearly had a taste for colour, as now one of the walls was a hideous, hideous shade of yellow.

"Oh.. Oh my.." June muttered to herself under her breath as the girl's endless cascade of words seemed to make the obtrusive yellow of the wall more and more offensive with every word. June took a deep breath. Calm down, June, she might be very nice. June flinched internally as the girl mentioned the fire in the Hufflepuff common room, wanting to completely relinquish any knowledge of the event.

June sat next to Maggie on the bed, as per her friend's silent request. "Hats would be quite fun! They'd help keep the sun off of our heads, too. It's been quite bright today." June adjusted herself on the bed, sitting cross-legged. "I'm Selwyn, by the way. June Selwyn." She reverted back to her prior way of introductions. "Your pygmy puff is quite cute. Marcus, you said his name was?" She laughed softly. "So.. What are his thoughts on starfish?"

EVENT: Arriving at Camp | Interacting With: @Marshal Mozor, @June Selwyn, & @Nicholas McCowan | Mentioning: @Evelynn Decipio & @Haven Bohannon | Dialogue Hex: #143314

Speak of the devil and he doth appear. Speak of his nerdy, heretic teenage cousin Leonard Oaksworth, and he doth appear as well, clothed in pretentiously geriatric uniform and a significant portion of a bramble shrub. Though his sense of fashion was best described as a tinny little radio from the early twentieth century that frequently tried to gaslight him into bringing about the renaissance of formal bowling shirts, the latter embellishment and his lack of punctuality in officially inducting himself to the eloquently titled Eyebatch Pwnies had been anything but voluntary. Anything but voluntary also described whatever Margaret Hawkins had taken as his agreement to being called the Eyebatch Pwnies, but he’d rather not dwell on the series of incidents that led him towards her path and this particular group of people. People would have to be used with the broadest possible definition during summer camp, he figured, updated to be inclusive of overly enthusiastic children-things and Durmstrang students who could break his back over a square inch of their knees.

One piece of attire that had seemed anything but optional was the plastic pirate patch wrapped around his spiralling head. He wasn’t going to wear it all the time, lest his impromptu invitee to think his only social lifeline had been possessed by the ghost of Blackbeard, but he was going to adhere to the thematic sensibilities of their tent to the best of his dressing abilities. He didn’t think that much else about the tent would be sensible, really, and the accessory had its functional purposes. Perhaps, as was the new direction of his spiralling as a less concerning substitute to wondering if the dorkily-bobbed boy from earlier would make it to the tent, it would shield him from sights that the rest of his summer companions would inevitably be subject to, such as Maggie Hawkins herself and Marshal’s future flirtationships with some overseas fling. Perhaps he would be able to craft an appropriately maudlin misadventure to gain the pity and trust of his tentmates only to miraculously be healed of his eye’s ailment by night’s end, which could then make a return whenever Marshal asked him to sign up for Hundred-Bludger Quidditch or a similarly horrific game.

Perhaps he should have put off putting the eyepatch on until he actually arrived at the tent, for his beautiful little dragon had a scheming streak for escape towards the great unknown. He swore unto the Aldousian Oath that he would protect Merlin from the most harrowing hags and the cruelest of careless Converse, and henceforth was he not only late but accompanied with some shrubbery wrapping around his trousers and rolled-up sleeves. He’d traversed through the great unknown in the adrenaline-filled veins of valiant adventurers past, braving the rushing rapids of reckless peers and resolutely pursuing the lizard through the jungles of jettisoned itineraries and trunks that really should’ve rolled out of his path. It took hours, days, millennium, or possibly just a few minutes, but now did he face an utter truth: it was going to be a hell of a summer.

“I doubt the situations leading up to someone losing an eye would be much fun, either,” he muttered at the sight of their tent’s exterior, which gained little more than a flippant nod from his pet. At last, Leonard Oaksworth and all his miniature shoulder fiends burst through the Eyebatch Pwnies tent’s entrance, met with the most disgusting shade of yellow ever to have existed within the earthly rainbow. It could’ve been summoned from the deepest depths of the underworld, in fact, or it could’ve been willingly given by Satan himself after the grand demon's realisation that not even traitorous murderers deserved to look at it. In short, he hated it, and if he was going to spend his entire summer here, he would have to be actually blinded at some point.

“Alabaster with a hint of ecru, brilliant choice.” He swallowed his comments about the other colours so generously decorating their shared living (though he felt quite suddenly that dying was a fairly good prospect so long as his corpse could be used to cover up the odious yellow) space. The culprits of the crime were, in his mind, narrowed down to three suspects: Marshal, Maggie, or the flowery Hufflepuff he couldn't name just yet. He wasn't sure which option would make for the most mental torture, which was usually happened to him anyhow in due time.

“Selwyn, McCowan, Hawkins, good day to all of you,” he nodded in acknowledgement of each of his acquaintances, a courteous smile turning wider with at the last girl’s name. She might’ve had a better haircare routine than the flannel-loving lion he’d once shared a compartment with, but the chances of enjoying a quiet, peaceful, health-code-following cereal bowl for breakfast shrunk to the size of his faith in whoever decided that fluorescent mustard was flattering to their tent’s reputation. It seemed that his hopes would only find respite in Selwyn, whose mood he felt responsible for uplifting after the crashing of her earlier birthday bash. He then turned to a familiar face, albeit one made familiar only through their shared year and the latter’s participation in Quidditch, Gryffindorism, female nature, and other activities he considered Marshal-adjacent. “And I suppose that this would be the one you had a most excited hand in inviting, Marshal?”

“Not the one you’ll be bunking with, though. It’d be best we don’t disturb anyone during our late-night draconic research, yes?” He offered a high five to the Gryffindor, an entirely sincere gesture of brotherhood despite apparent suspicion from an irritated Merlin that ‘draconic research’ was an insincere euphemism for something else. The questions continued as he picked off the motley crew of thorns adorning his trousers’ cuffs. “Who else are we waiting for, then? And, on a completely unrelated note, is everyone just…entrusted with the ability to pick out some new shade for our walls without putting it to a poll, at least?”

Arrival at Camp | @Marshal Mozor, @Evelynn Decipio, @Maggie Hawkins, @June Selwyn, @Haven Bohannon & @Leonard Oaksworth

“Y’know, it really wouldn’t be,” Nicholas answered his housemate, “Also, my reputation is fine. Takes more than a fluke loss at chess to undo broom racing success.”

It stung a little, knowing just how thoroughly he had failed to best Mozor at the game. But it didn’t sting as much as leading Gryffindor to a loss against Ravenclaw, a Ravenclaw side that was on average younger and less experienced than the lions. He grimaced at the very memory of the last race before summer, before rapidly masking his discomfort with a smirk.

The conversation was pleasant enough, the banter was laced with barbs, but they were friendly enough to constitute playfulness rather than spite. He’d honestly expected nothing less from Decipio, and given his knowledge of Slytherins, he wasn’t surprised to find that they were swift to engage in a touch of ribbing amongst one another. At least, he observed as much between the two younger Slytherin girls. In particular, he noted that Maggie didn’t seem to care that she’d confused himself and Marshal. Her flippancy was respectable, so many people at the school seemed to rest on ceremony, demanding that everything be so prim and bloody-well proper. To see that at least one of the younger generation had no issues with casting such assertions to the wind was refreshing. God, if he had to hear another speech about the ires of wizarding society, he’d cast himself from the astronomy tower.

Although, maybe a self-aggrandising lecture would have been preferable to the arrival of the Hufflepuff. He recognised her face, but not her name, nor the pace at which she spoke. Nicholas baulked, wide-eyed and stupid as a cavalcade of words flowed from her mouth. Something about pigmy-puffs, she had one, and hats, and a fire in the Hufflepuff common room, and doughnuts, and a veritable list of unfinished thoughts that Nicholas couldn’t track. What he could track, however, was the aggressively yellow shade of death that she transfigured the walls into.

Nicholas was a relatively brave lad, it came part of the territory of being sorted into the house of Godric, but he found himself temporarily taken aback, unable to process exactly what was happening. Sure, she wasn’t dissimilar from Aurora, and he’d ended up dating her, but at least he’d grown used to her own personal brand of crazy.

That was rainbow insanity compared to neon yellow. Truly, an entirely different breed.

A breed that Leonard Oaksworth saw fit to comment on upon his own entrance to the tent, in that utterly too-formal way of his. They’d shared a train compartment to the last summer camp, but had barely interacted outside of that meeting. Although, Nicholas was pleasantly surprised to see that the boy had barely changed since that time.

Nicholas raised a lazy land in response to Oaksworth’s greeting, not bothering with much else. Before he turned his attention back to the horrific wall-colour and Oaksworth’s own commentary on such.

“Nah,” Nicholas drawled, drawing his own wand, “Who needs a poll? Colovaria.”

The walls of the tent are now a dark-grey

He’d intended to change the walls back to an off-white, or perhaps a lighter grey, his failure in that part irked him. Bloody transfiguration, bloody spellwork.

Still, he hid his shame well enough, “Let’s just keep changing it until all but one of us give up, hey? Seems appropriate.”

Mentioning @Haven Bohannon, @June Selwyn, @Maggie Hawkins, @Leonard Oaksworth, @Evelynn Decipio, @Nicholas McCowan, @Marshal Mozor

Height: 4 foot 7 inches. Accent: Mostly American. Outfit: green sweater vest over a white collared shirt. Jorts. Ankle-high white socks and dark blue sneakers. He has grass stains on the butt of his jorts. Duffel bag strapped over his shoulder.

Seven had gotten turned around. Leonard had booked it—began chasing his tiny dragon across the stadium—like, through shrubbery—and Seven had tried to follow, because he didn’t actually know where their tent was—and then he’d gotten a little lost and had to ask a kind elderly witch for help. She’d pointed him to the tent area of the stadium, which was a good five-minute-walk weaving through the crowds, and then, he’d found it. The Place. The Tent Full Of People Who Were Older And Likely Cooler Than Him. The Tent That Was Also Co-Ed And Had Several Quidditch Players. And Also Housed Leonard’s Best Friend Who Leonard Was Also Maybe In Love With.

Voices, muffled through the walls. Like, guy and girl voices. Like, actually co-ed.

Seven steeled himself. Steeled himself again. Gripped the strap of his duffel bag, at his shoulder. Oh my god. They were all going to be taller than him.

And Seven walked inside.

Dark gray walls. Rows of bunk beds (wow, this tent was really spacious—) And uh—people. Students, Hogwarts students, standing around, sitting on bunk beds. Older. Acquainted.

He swept his eyes around, took in the whole of it—

Nearest to him, closer to the entrance than anyone else—Leonard. Oh my gosh, Leonard was here. A flood of relief. And he’d found his dragon baby. And he had twigs sticking to his sleeves. And it looked like he was in conversation with—

A dark-haired guy with his attention on the wall of the tent. His hair was grown-out—wavy—fluffy? framing by his jaw, with low-set dark brows. He was kind of… intense-looking. With a squared-off chin. And flannel. He looked like he could be a dragon tamer—an indie dragon tamer—and he was talking to Leonard—this must have been Leonard’s best friend who he was in love with, the Mozor™…

Across the entrance, sitting on top of a bunk, elegant: an auburn haired girl, pretty, with a reserved but friendly demeanor. Her outfit was really posh, frilly—she looked like she was enjoying having the high vantage, at least to him. Was she a seventh year or something? Just her body language, even—she seemed like she really had it together—

And sitting on a bed were two girls, close to each other, they looked really comfortable next to each other—a girl with dark fluffy hair and large, wide set eyes with small rosy lips, but why did she possess a little bit of… an air of… don’t-fuck-around-with-me-itis? And her friend, a blonde girl with blue eyes and a soft, open face, her hair short and nicely tousled—they looked really cute next to each other, like two peas in a pod, like the other was made to fit in the space next to them—

And across the room, a pale girl with strawberry blond hair and freckles smattering across her cheeks, decked head to toe fashionably in daisies. Just the angle of her limbs was energetic, and her eyes bright, and she had a little purple pygmy puff holy moly—

And not least was the one Seven dubbed The Athletic One. He had short-cropped blond hair, and was slender yet athletic, dressed casually, with a rope necklace. He looked like he could be one of the teen surfer boy advertisements that Seven saw in the youth section at H&M in a mall of London proper.

Maybe he was one of the Quidditch players or broom racers. Really, everyone in this tent looked really nice.

Seven tried not to think about his jorts.

Whatever Leonard and the intense-looking dark-haired Mozor had been talking about, it seemed to have been sorted out? Also, was Seven supposed to wear an eyepatch?

Seven swallowed. The scent of people batted at him, tinged with magic, so different from the way his house smelled, or even his classroom last year. Oh man, what if one of them didn’t like werewolves. He thought of his mom and dad, very briefly, and a weird urge of protectiveness welled up in him. Whatever. And, well, they didn’t have to know, obviously! No one knew. And no one would, unless he said anything.

With that, he raised his hand and gave a small wave. Smiled. It was easier to smile at them than he thought it would be. He was nervous, but also, strangely excited.

Hogwarts students.

Cool.

He said, “Hi everyone. I’m Seven. The name, not the age." Yeah, it was—important to specify. "I'm going to be a first year. And um, Leonard invited me.”

Sharing Poetry | @Marshal Mozor @Evelynn Decipio

28th of August 2022

The twilight of Summer Camp was upon them, and in a few days hence, the students of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be back in Scotland, at the rather airy castle that would serve as their home away from home whilst they learned all their was to know about spellcraft and the like. For the most part the camp had been well enough, Nicholas supposed, he hadn’t found much to complain about, not even the neverending prank war that had erupted between himself and Decipio. The competition had been good-natured, if slightly cruel, but he was more than confident in stating that there had been no malice intended on either of their parts. He didn’t know the quidditch captain well, but she did not seem the sort to dain toward personal attacks. No, the pranks had been irritating, and at times angering, but he’d never felt the target of a campaign of rancour.

That did not mean he wasn’t willing to take his revenge through a strike below the proverbial belt, and as their days in London began to dwindle, it seemed inevitable that he would need to resort to such tactics to eke out anything resembling a win. Not that there were scorekeepers, not in a true sense of the term, but life had no referee but it certainly had losers. If the almighty was willing to create a world where competition deemed who was fit to survive, then Nicholas saw no issue with playing by the rules as dictated by nature.

It was happenstance that delivered him his weapon, an innocuous book, foolishly left out where prying eyes could gleen its pages. It was an unfamiliar tome and curiosity piqued Nicholas’s interest before any thoughts of competition could. He was alone in the tent, at least for the moment, the game of Twirl the Flagon had seemingly drawn the attention of most of his tentmates. Where the remainder were, he did not know, nor did he particularly care, for the text upon the pages gripped him immediately.

Poetry.

His eyes scanned the pages rapidly, taking in the flowery language and emotions of undeniable romance. He felt as a voyeur, peaking into the soul of one of the girls in his tent, reading her attempts to comprehend the feelings that no doubt raced through her heart. It was only as he turned the pages back to the first entries, those more typical journalistic musings, that it became painfully clear exactly who the diary belonged to. He had signed his name, had he not?

Connections formed in Nicholas’s mind, and swiftly, he turned the pages again, finding the descriptors the hopelessly romantic lion had provided for each of the girls he’d no doubt considered beautiful enough to daydream about. Striking eyes like storm clouds, those belonging to one Evelynn Decipio, a poem named for the eye of the storm. An idea struck the young lion immediately, and with it came a rush of guilt for even considering it, for the betrayal that it would amount to.

Those doubts were set aside, they’d prove no use, not now. There was a game to win, and Mozor would need to understand that all was fair in love and war. He would supply the former, but the latter was the domain of Nicholas.

The book would find a temporary home beneath Nicholas’s pillow, the bed closest to the exit, to escape from the consequences.

29th of August 2022

The following evening was like any other, with one noticeable exception, the usually stand-offish Nicholas had grinned like a hyena through much of it, his uneasiness fading throughout the preceding day. Raw adrenaline fueled him now, his worries of the prior afternoon forgotten in the face of excitement.

A lull in the inevitable conversation came, and Nicholas took his chance, practically throwing himself out of the bed, the journal clutched to his side as he did so, “I wanted to share something with you all… as a thank you for being such great tent-mates this summer. A bit of a parting gift… Now, don’t laugh, but… I’d like to read a bit of poetry.”

He practically sauntered to the centre of the room, to the fishy rug that would serve as his stage. Raising the journal, he would shoot his most shit-eating grin to Decipio and then to Mozor in turn, “I call this piece, For the Eye of My Storm.”

And he read.